


Sand world 888

by Adrian_digital



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrian_digital/pseuds/Adrian_digital
Summary: Ear wrenching chorus of insects screaming post modern rock into the cartilage of your very own ear.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Sand world 888

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to steal and abuse my writing, there isn’t any worth in this chunk of words anyway. You may find copies of my work on freeways and under swear grates

The light in the corridor, white and tinny, was always accompanied with an electric buzz. Jamison noticed the light. He always noticed things. He also noticed how the light made him feel. The light was a product of the machine, it all was, the corridor, the dirty little room, the desert, even the mountains were artificial. He would have described his feeling as comfort, but Jamison knew better. He was disgusted by the thought that he might feel anything but contempt for the machine. It was not possible to feel comfort in this place. And of all things that would bring him comfort..why the machine? Jamison knew that by all means he could not help his emotions, but still, he was disgusted. Jamison was not a man accustomed to the practice of blame, although it had been his instinctual reaction to blame the machine for his being here. Perhaps the machine grew bored with so many meat slaves, and for its own amusement, crafted this world for jamison. ‘Oh to be one of them’ jamison often thought. Thought. Jamison thought. This was the reason for his pain. At first when he awoke naked and aware, he wished for days when he could see the blue sky and run through the grass. But now he knew that was impossible. Now jamison longed for the end, for the machine to become bored with him and discard him. The meat slaves were a lucky lot, he thought bitterly. Bitterness was all jamison thought of. And longing. Jamison longed to be free. Not for death, but freedom, with biological death there was no telling where his consciousness would go, death of the body did not reassure that the machine would not somehow trap his mind, and condemn him to another century of pain. In the beginning of his torture, Jamison pleaded to God, to Jesus, to everything if anything that was out there to set him free. But no God came. No rescuer held his naked body close like a mother to a child and whispered words of assurance. So he lay. He lay in the dingy yellowing room, his body limp as that of a corpse. He lay for years, weeks, he did not know how time passed in the desert. He amused himself with the idea that at his current state, the machine would think him dead and take his body to the incinerator and he could be free...a silly thought. Still he lay. Jamison wished above all things, for sleep, to be able to enter that space between reality and nothing, Oh sweet death! Oh lovely sleep! Take me from this place of pain! But he could not sleep. The machine had denied him that right, just as it had denied him death. Sometime during these thoughts his body jerked awake, a spasm probably, it had been still for far too long, months, he suspected. Of course his mind had been awake all that time, the machine spared no expenses in its everlasting career of torment.

Jamison lifted his head. It was still there. That light in the corridor was still humming. Humming was not the word for it, Jamison thought, humming is something a babe hears from his mothers’ lips, this was not that. Jamison had noticed a while ago that the noise got louder at points, and became quite terrible for the human ear, at these times jamison would curl up in a ball with his hands over his ears and cry. He cursed himself for being too pathetic to leave the room of buzzing, he felt as if it was a million voices of insects in his temples. In the beginning, Jamison had awoken in the very same room, with its chlorine scent and yellowing walls, and although he had gone to other buildings and rooms in the desert he found himself back in his so called birthplace. The other rooms had been too busy, the walls black or brown, confusing him. Jamison had never found the source of the chlorine odor in his birth room, as he had begun to call it in his head. 

The meat slaves only came through the desert when the sky went dark, a simulation of night, but there was no real time in the desert. Jamison had watched them through the window of his birth room, just to have something to look at. But now he didn’t move to the window at all, sparing himself from the saddening sight. Sweet death! the window had sung, and he had enthusiastically leapt from it to the ground, but the machine did not like that, and healed the wounds to his neck with ease. After that incident the window no longer opened, of course the machine had taken away the one release that jamison might have had from this existence. Before the pain, before the desert and before the machine, Jamison had been an unartistic man, He had joined a university in Prague out of boredom, with nothing else to do in his young, uneventful life. Jamison was living idally until his mother died, the fever they had said. Imagine that! The fever! He would have scoffed at this ridiculous idea if he had not been in a deep depression. Jamison had begun to slip off the edge, his peers at the university giving him pitiful looks as everyday he came to lectures more and more worn, until he eventually stopped attending and dropped out. He refused to pay his rent. He was too absorbed in mourning to work at the printer shop anymore, too sorry for himself, too weak and too stubborn to move on in life. Then the machine had been introduced, he had seen it in the papers, the journalists lavishly describing the wonders of the new supercomputer that would quote unquote: “lead mankind into a bright future”. Of course it killed them all, of course it did. But Jamison was spared. And now he sits in his birth room, with his rigidly shut window and the weight of a working brain heavy in his head.

Jamison wandered out of the birth room during the night, it wasn’t really the night, as there was no sun and moon, just sky. The lack of moon and stars didn’t have that much of an effect on jamison, as he did not remember too well what they looked like. Jamison exited the building of the birth room, the smell of sand was a nice change from the chlorine scent of that room. As jamison walked, the red sand crept between his toes. He walked between the two tall towers, the ones with the black windows. He tread steadily over the stone bridge, which stood over no water, yet was merely there. Now jamison was in the other part of the city, the buildings still scarce. Tonight, he decided to try the cream colored building, which he had only entered once, and only the first floor. In the building was a set of spindly stairs leading up to the second floor. When jamison arrived at the top floor, he noticed that there was only one room at the end of the hallway, most buildings only had a few rooms, sometimes the rooms were interconnected, but rarely they were anything interesting. Jamison lazily opened the brown door into the room. When jamison stepped into the room, the first thing he noticed was the heat, it was warm and comfortable. Jamison then noticed the color of the room, red, not bright red but a dark red like meat. The smell of the room was faint but still very recognisable, he identified it as a sort of poultry like odor, like down feathers on a chick. Jamison was struck with the thought that if he had not known better, it would appear that he was in the belly of some beast, perhaps a womb, or an incubation chamber. Even the walls seemed to breathe slightly, rising and falling slowly. Jamison left the door open and walked further into the pulsating room. There were no windows or chairs, and the room was small enough that he did not feel uncomfortable with its apparent emptiness. Jamison passed a hand along one of the walls as he walked and noticed that when he had withdrawn his hand it was covered in a warm liquid, like saliva. He wiped his hand on his leg and looked around the room once more. 

Back in the birth room jamison thought back on the strange place, how odd it had been, almost alive.. The machine might have created it to give him some illusion that the place was alive, but it had not felt like the work of the machine, it had felt more authentic than the machine’s false way of replicating life.

Life for jamison was pretty epic I might say my dear fellow

Beautiful people with long necks, he said, beautiful people with long necks.  
Two thirds of their workforce fall into that category  
Please cooperate with the authorities   
The gentlemen with the law enforcement think my testing may have been compromised .  
Somethings not right somethings not right somethings not right somethings not right somethings not right.  
Band jazz music wear a plastic tunic, fuck in the sink call in the loonatic  
Call in the lunatic come on call him we wanna dance on our feet we wanna go for a swim kids with adhd can't sit still so why do the work when you could live fill

Fear manifested itself in the belly of the beast, terrifying in the way that it did not take form, it was simply there in all places. Instead of appearing as a physical shape, it lay in the corners of rooms, under boxes and in cabinets, simply waiting. All they did was wait. They waited for something to happen, spending the months in silence. The crew of the starship Cogarr was in pieces, scattered throughout the ship, either locked up in their quarters or wandering around the mess hall   
R

**Author's Note:**

> Braps loudly


End file.
